


Medic

by loveslashangst, ophymirage



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Archetypes, Comfort Sex, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophymirage/pseuds/ophymirage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still has bad dreams, but he doesn’t have to wake alone anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medic

**Author's Note:**

> John’s service as an army doctor (and the resulting psychological damage) is front and centre here. Also sort of a sequel in the same general AU as “Getting the Message”, “And That Has All The Differential Made”, and “…But Never Roses”.
> 
> NOTA BENE: the dream imagery at the end of this story is taken in part from the paintings of John William Waterhouse (a contemporary of ACD), in particular his 1892 “Circe Invidiosa” http://www.jwwaterhouse.com/view.cfm?recordid=63

_Heat. Searing heat. His throat aches for water. His skin dries and tightens. Sweat trickles down his back. Cakes with dust. Forms a gritty stripe of grime under the worn fabric of his uniform._

 _No time to think. They need him. Now. He has to go out into the blaze. It’s bright. Too bright. His eyes hurt from squinting. Dust and sand dry out his corneas._

 _Hurry. Hurry. Look back. Look front. Side and side. Where is his escort? No sidearm. No defences. Alone. He’s alone._

 _Only a dead man walks alone. He hurries to the place where patients need him. To where the half-dead are stacked like dried kindling beneath the tent. To where ruined soldiers wait for their turn on his makeshift (someone’s kitchen) table. To the place where parts of men and women grab at him, begging for help._

 _“Medic!”_

 _Blood. To his elbows. Blood sticky to his elbows and the wet shit-piss-vomit-blood reek of the dying. Barely out of their teens and in pieces. Living pieces that scream for his attention._

 _“Medic!”_

 _Grit and dust and sand cake his skin, sucking the fluid from him. He can’t breathe through the raw-meat-slaughterhouse stench._

 _“Medic!”_

 _Elbows-deep in the boy’s viscera. The patient screams, choked wails from a body that’s beyond pain. Beyond panic. John’s going to lose this one. Boy’s half-dead already, blood flowing in rivers from his ruined belly._

 _“Medic! M--Medic! Medicmedicmedicmedic.” The incantation of the dying. A hand claws at him. Flinching, he pries it off his arm with bloody fingers. Reaches into the boy’s belly again. Not enough pieces. Can’t make them fit. Hot blood. Hot screams. Hot sand and dust swirl, fouling the wound as the young soldier bleeds out._

 _Bloodless lips whisper, “Medic… medic…”_

 _No implements. No plasma. No sutures. Barbarity and want. Where’s his sergeant? (Gone home, not here anymore.) Murray’s abandoned him and he has to stop the…_

 _John wipes desperately at the streaming tears that are his body’s defence against the scorching dryness. Stubbornly refuses to give in to panic. Catches the blood in his cupped hands. Tries to pour it back in. It won’t stay in. It overflows, running faster and faster. Taunts him. Pours out of the body, which has finally fallen silent._

 _“Medic,” the contemptuous blood laughs, “Medic. Medic. Medic.”_

 _It mocks him in a thousand low murmurs as the boy’s wounds dry out. The blood dries. Cakes in the heat and WHERE ARE THE OTHER DOCTORS?_

 _Half-congealed blood seeps off the table. Turns to dust as it hits the air. Swirls with the pale sand. Envelops him in choking clouds._

 _“Medic,” the suffocating wind scoffs. “Medic.”_

 _The world explodes. Dust from ruined buildings pours over him. The world shatters into pieces that bury themselves in his skin, burrowing deeper until his own skin burns from the inside out. His own belly cracks and splits open in the ruinous heat. Blood pours out through his fingers. Blackens in the wind. Mixes into dust._

 _“Medic,” comes an unearthly whisper._

 _The soldier’s corpse sits up. Looks at him. When it smiles, sand pours dryly out of its mouth. Dry. So dry. John’s blood flows toward the thing. Mixes with the dust that swarms from the corpse’s gutted belly. Baring teeth in hungry triumph, the corpse begins to swell. Gaping wounds pull at the bloody dust between them, dragging John forward. If the corpse touches him, it will suck the life out of him._

 _GET AWAY! GET AWAY! DON’T TOUCH ME!_

“John. You’re dreaming, John.”

 _Blood-turned-silt drains into the mummified ruin of a soldier, who watches him with the sunken eyes of the undead…_

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

Hard hands catch his wrists. Cross his arms over his chest.

 _It’s got him! It will turn him to dust!_

“No! No! NO! NO!”

“Breathe in, John.” The voice again. He tries to push it aside, but it’s got him. It winds him up in strong arms that won’t let him go.

 _It’ll drink him dry. Heat and blood and dustbloodgorevomitheat heat heat heat CAN’T BREATHE!_

A leg traps his, pinning him down.

“Breathe IN, John.”

It’s holding him. The voice is holding him and speaking right into his ear. “You’re safe. Damn you, John Watson, BREATHE.”

He breathes in on a sob. Tears course from his eyes. The world is a hot blur.

“Breathe out,” says the voice.

 _He fumbles to catch his own blood before it can turn to…_

“Breathe out.” The hands shake his wrists. “Now, John. Breathe out.”

“Get off me!” he gasps. Dust. He’s bleeding and parched and if he opens his eyes… “Won’t let you have me.”

“I’ve already got you, John,” says the voice, firmly. “You’re safe. Now breathe in.”

He breathes in, a sniffling, miserable excuse for a breath. Snot clogs his sinuses, choking him. _Sand blinds him._ He coughs. “Leave me alone.”

 _If he opens his eyes again, the monster will wither him and turn him to dust._

“Breathe out.” A lithe chest presses against his back. Naked. They’re naked. _But how can they be? Murray rotated home…_

The air is like a chill hand on his face.

“Breathe in.”

He sniffs. It’s cold. Cold and wet. Kandahar’s sometimes this cold at night, but never this wet.

The voice never wavers. “Breathe out.”

He shivers with relief, nose dripping and tears still flowing from his eyes. He struggles, but the hands hold him firmly. The leg pins him to the bed. He’s in bed with a naked man. He’s naked too. Why is he naked? Doesn’t matter. He can breathe in this cold, cold air. In. Out. The voice begins to breathe with him.

“Where are you?” it says at last.

“Kandahar,” he manages.

 _Hot. Hot. Hotdryblooddeath medic medicmedicMEDICMEDIC!_

“Breathe in, John.”

He breathes in. Cool and wet.

“Breathe out.”

He breathes out. Hot and shaking.

“Breathe in London.”

He breathes in cold and the welcome claustrophobia of civilization.

“Breathe out Kandahar.”

He blows away panic and blood. Dust and sand. His world coming apart while he tried to sew pieces of men and women back together.

“Breathe in London,” says the voice.

Too cold and always raining. The city Sherlock loves, and Sherlock is mad and cold and brilliant.

“Breathe out Kandahar.” Sherlock is the voice. Sherlock is holding him. Sherlock’s got him, and will never let him go till he’s safe.

John’s body goes limp. Home. He’s home. He sobs softly, this time in gratitude.

“Where are you, John?” the voice is kinder now.

“London.” The word tastes like safety.

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “Be more precise. Where are you?”

The room’s air is cold, but Sherlock is warm under the blankets. Warmth that comes from their shared body heat. Sherlock’s behind him on the bed, naked body spooned with his to conserve warmth. One of Sherlock’s legs pins both of John’s to the bed so he can’t hurt either of them.

“Bed.” He swallows hard against a surge of relief. “My bed.”

“No,” says Sherlock.

“Our bed,” John corrects himself, and a giddy smile flits across his lips before he sobers, blinking back tears. “Yours and mine.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hands loosen. He pulls his leg back. Nuzzles John’s neck below his ear. The voice is a comforting purr now. “Are you back?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s got him. Everything’s all right. John’s home. And his nose is half-frozen. Should turn up the furnace - but the cold makes Sherlock snuggle into him to drain-- no, to _leech_ off John's higher body temperature and it was just a fucking dream.

Sherlock cups John’s shoulder with one hand, the other pressing his belly. “Do you want to try to sleep again?”

He turns enough to press his cheek to Sherlock’s. “Not yet.” He looks up into that strange, pale gaze. “I--”

Wetness drips onto his cheek. Startled, he pulls back. Reaches for the light.

Sherlock’s face is smeared with blood.

 _The blood runs faster and faster…_

He flails. Sherlock catches his wrists, saving him from falling out of bed. _And blood will turn to dust…_ Determined, John grits his teeth against the images because they’re JUST A FUCKING DREAM. But Sherlock is bleeding, and he has to force down the panic because Sherlock’s injuries could be serious. He slides to the edge of the bed, dragging Sherlock with him. When Sherlock releases one of John’s hands to resist the pull, John grabs his lover’s arm. Yanks Sherlock out of the room with a bruising grip.

 _Wounded. Sherlock is wounded in action and bleeding out._

“I’m FINE.” But Sherlock allows himself to be led, which is good because they have to get to the bathroom immediately. John has to know how badly Sherlock is injured.

John blinks in the merciless glare of the bathroom light. Forces his eyes to adjust. Snatches a washcloth from under the counter. Dampens it.

“You woke flailing,” Sherlock says, flinching away from John’s probing fingers. “That’s all, John. It’s nothing.”

John shushes him, adrenaline focussing his triage instincts. He turns Sherlock’s head this way and that. Examines every angle. Gently palpates along the edges of the nose. Tests to see if the sinuses are damaged. Probes for possible breaks. Figures out where the worst of the blood is coming from.

 _The blood soaks his hands, pours down over his wrists. It’ll be elbows-deep soon…_

“John. It’s just a nosebleed, John,” Sherlock insists. “You have a hard head.”

He bites back the apology, refusing to let Sherlock go as he wipes the blood away. “No serious damage. There may be some bruising tomorrow, but nothing’s broken.”

“I already said I’m--“

“I heard you,” says John, rinsing the blood out of the washcloth. “Please, Sherlock. I-I have to be sure.” His cheeks are burning, even in the chill, but…

 _Pieces of men and women and never enough time._

Sherlock closes his mouth. Nods. John runs the washcloth under the taps once more, and then turns to clean the last faint traces of blood from Sherlock’s nose.

It’s bloody cold in here, but at least he can breathe. And both of them are alive -- it’s a testament to the vividness of the nightmare that such a thought is necessary, but the truth of it is reassuring. He smiles at the slide of the cloth over his lover’s skin.

Sherlock has such a gorgeous face, all strange angles and pale skin. Impossible cheekbones. Kissable mouth. John finds himself lingering. Watching that mouth. Sherlock. The man he loves.

The mouth smiles. When he looks up, Sherlock’s eyes are warm.

But when John leans in for a kiss, Sherlock catches his face in his hands, holding John at a slight distance. “You’re a mess,” Sherlock says gently.

John allows his head to be turned. Looks at the fright that is his reflection. Puffy eyes. Drying snot at his nose. Odd smears of blood on his own face.

He avoids his reflection’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re---?” Sherlock stops himself. “For fuck’s sake, John,” he mutters. He takes the cloth from John’s hand. Runs it under more hot water. “Stand still.”

“I can…”

“No,” says Sherlock. “I will.” He firmly mops up John’s face with a few eye-blinking swipes of the steaming washcloth.

John lets him, feeling quite the embarrassed ten-year-old being seen to by his mum. The hot tears are soon back. After a few moments, he can’t control the sobs.

The washcloth slows. “John,” Sherlock murmurs. “It’s all right.”

The sobs are fiercer. They boil up and out of him, as do the tears. “No,” he gasps. “It’s not.”

Sherlock pauses, uncertain. Then cleaning becomes caressing. Gentle and thorough. Wiping the tears away with Sherlock’s own stamp of stubborn determination. And this just makes John cry harder. And laugh. And laugh at his crying. Then laugh at Sherlock trying not to laugh. Then laugh with Sherlock when he gives in to laughing. And it’s all a wretched mix of emotions and release.

Sherlock rinses out the washcloth. Dabs away a few final tears. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”

Feeling wrung out but lighter, John kisses Sherlock’s thumb as it swipes past his mouth. The thumb pauses. John turns his head enough to draw the tip of it into his mouth. Suckles gently.

Sherlock is perfectly still, watching, his pupils wide. His breathing stutters. Uneven. Aroused.

John smiles around the digit. Draws it deeper. Flicks his tongue over the sensitive pad. Sherlock's breathing goes more ragged.

Sherlock gazes intently at his face, reading every nuance. He smiles lazily. Drops the washcloth. Cups John’s face in his hands. Kisses him, deep and wet, until John surges up onto the balls of his feet to meet every movement of Sherlock’s mouth.

John presses himself against the damp, cool length of his lover. Shivers at the feel of moistened skin on skin, warming between them. Sherlock’s hand is firm at the back of his neck, the other mid-back to pull him deeper into the kiss. John arches his back slightly as Sherlock trails leisurely kisses down his throat.

“We should--” John swallows hard against the knee-weakening sensation of Sherlock, slowly exploiting every sensitive place on his neck. “S-should go… bed. We should g-go back to bed.”

He slides his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Pulls his head up. Kisses him intently.

Sherlock is half-smiling. “Yes.”

Sherlock walks him backwards through the door and out to the hall, one step and kiss at a time, until John’s pressed against the bedroom door. Used to be his bedroom. Now it’s theirs. John warms even more at the thought, which is good because the wood is fucking FREEZING.

But every time John reaches blindly behind him for the door, Sherlock redoubles his welcome assault on John’s mouth. When Sherlock finally lets him up for air, John takes advantage of the chance to jerk the door open and pull them both inside.

Sherlock leads him over to the bed. Sits, eyeing John’s cock, which is at a perfect level with Sherlock’s sensual mouth.

John’s breath catches in his throat. The heat suffuses his skin. No matter how many times Sherlock… John still… He moistens his lips, not sure how to ask.

Sherlock licks delicately at the head of his dick. Kisses the underside softly, and rubs his cheek along the shaft. John shivers. He’s about to curl a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, but the guarded look on his lover’s face makes him pause. “What?” John says.

“You were screaming,” Sherlock says softly. He wraps a hand around John’s dick, but both the touch and Sherlock’s expression are cautious. “I don’t want to…” He seems to run out of words.

John scoffs a little, chuckling. “You had no problem earlier, when you folded me in half and fucked me until I came screaming.”

“Of course,” says Sherlock, as if this is a ridiculous objection. “You were keen for it then.”

“Trust me,” John says, leaning into the touch, “I’m keen for it now.”

Sherlock cocks a doubting eyebrow up at him, which would be much more effective if he didn’t accompany the look by letting John’s dick slip past his lips and into the heat of that gorgeous, gorgeous mouth. One long, slow, relishing slide. Down. Then up.

John moans deep in his throat, undone.

And then Sherlock stops. Waits. John scrambles for the right words. “You’re not taking advantage of me,” he reassures him. “It’s an experiment.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks into one of those funny half-smiles. “Oh?”

John grins in return. “Therapeutic effects of oral and manual sexual stimulation in the ongoing treatment of veterans suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Sherlock’s smile is genuine. “Quite a mouthful.”

“I flatter myself, yes.” He rocks slightly in Sherlock’s grip. “Please?”

Sherlock chuckles lowly. And, judging by the knee-weakening way he takes John back down his throat, he’s accepted the parameters of the challenge.

“If you publish,” John says. “I’ll want half credit.”

“If I publish,” Sherlock says with a teasing lick. “I’ll have to contact dozens of veterans and their lovers, wives, and husbands.”

“Strangely enough…” He gasps hard at the play of lips along the sensitive edges of the glans. “I may know someone who has contact with a whole community of veterans.”

Sherlock muffles his laughter around John’s cock. Within moments, John can’t help thrusting, one hand at the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s hands support the backs of John’s thighs and Merciful Christ, he’s going to die of pleasure. The range of sounds Sherlock pulls from him would be mortifying if that _thing_ he does, oh god oh fuck, with his tongue didn’t feel so fucking _fantastic._

Sherlock gets off on this too, the bastard, knowing that he’s the only one who’s loved John this well. John loses himself to the sweet rush. Feels those beautiful fingers tighten to support him as he writhes, closer and closer to bliss.

John wonders if he should simply give in and let Sherlock pull the orgasm from him. It’d be easier -- Sherlock’s fucking incredible at blowjobs, and has proven embarrassingly capable of bringing John off at speed - but right now, John needs this not to be easy. He needs the fight. The struggle. And Sherlock’s shown him half a dozen times that it’s better when he doesn’t just give in.

By sheer force of will, John pulls out of Sherlock’s mouth. He has to lean on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment to keep upright.

Panting slightly, Sherlock stares up at him, one eyebrow quirked. Apparently, John can still surprise him.

“Lie down,” John says.

“Lie down?” Sherlock repeats. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes flash with intrigued curiosity.

“Yes,” John says, straightening. “Lie down. On the bed. Now.”

There is a brief measuring of wills, and then Sherlock gives a slight nod. Slides onto the bed. Lies on his back. Folds his hands low on his belly. Looks over to John.

John straddles him, knees on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, hands on the headboard.

Sherlock moans low in his throat, anticipating.

“Wait.”

He teases Sherlock’s lips with the head of his cock at first. Strokes along the lower lip. Sherlock’s tongue licks at him, a flash of heat and wetness. John follows it back into Sherlock’s mouth. Slides deep. Slow. Pulls back, then in again, gentle, teasing thrusts that have Sherlock humming with want.

He pulls out again. “On your side.”

Sherlock’s smile of aroused curiosity is the best aphrodisiac John knows.

John rests behind Sherlock, Sherlock’s back to his chest. John snakes a possessive arm across Sherlock’s chest to his shoulder. Nips at his earlobe. When Sherlock draws in a quick breath, John nibbles down his neck, pulling him harder against John’s chest.

Sherlock squirms, impatient in spite of himself. Sometimes the man doesn’t seem to know what to do with his own sexual responses. John can only guess at how infrequently Sherlock attended to his own needs before they became lovers.

“Be still,” John commands softly.

A low puff of breath. Sherlock obeys. For all his bossiness and abrupt rudeness outside the bedroom, once inside, Sherlock’s much calmer when he turns control over to John.

John slides his fingers over Sherlock’s hip. Grasps his cock firmly. Strokes him as teasingly as if they had all night tonight and all day tomorrow.

Sherlock’s breath catches. “You don’t have to.”

John’s hand stills. “Do you want me to stop?”

It’s hard to read the conflicted emotions Sherlock’s radiating. If his body had its way, John’s pretty sure Sherlock might even be up for being fucked, but there’s some tension in his shoulders that means something else is in the way. “I don’t really need it,” Sherlock says.

John knows he’s in difficult territory here. Despite nearly six months as lovers, Sherlock still can be easily spooked if he’s not careful.

“Why not?” he says cautiously. It’s the closest he’s come to outright asking Sherlock about his quicksilver libido.

“I…” Sherlock appears to be in an agony of conflicted desire. “It’s just…. with you it’s so strong. I’m not used to it.”

So John caresses back up to Sherlock’s hip and bites his shoulder. “Is this better?”

“No,” Sherlock groans. “No, I _want_ it. I’m just not… Please…”

John takes that as an oblique invitation. He leans over to get the lube from the drawer in the side table beside the bed. “It’s better for me if both of us come. If I get to see you getting off on it. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, his whole body relaxing against John’s.

Johns kisses the sensitive place behind Sherlock’s ear. Grins at Sherlock’s hiss and buck when the cool liquid shocks Sherlock’s prick. Strokes him warm. Hot. Hotter.

“All right?” John says.

“God, yes,” Sherlock manages.

“I love your cock in my hand,” John murmurs in Sherlock’s ear. “Love the way you slide through my fingers. So hard, like your cock’s begging for it.” He nips Sherlock’s earlobe. “Jesus, I want to fuck you into the mattress.”

"We can't," Sherlock chokes out. (He wants it too.)

“It’s fine,” says John. “I mostly just want you to know how hot I think you are.”

"--can feel it," Sherlock manages.

Chuckling, John slides his fist faster and faster over Sherlock’s cock, which is now thick and swollen.

“John.” His name in Sherlock’s mouth is like a plea for mercy. John pauses his strokes long enough to pour a fresh puddle of lubricant into his hand. He strokes his own cock, moistening it, and then slides fingers and palm between Sherlock’s thighs.

“May I?” It’s almost physically painful to hold back, but…

Sherlock’s breath hitches again, then releases all in a rush. “Yes, please.”

“So beautiful and hot.” John holds his lover, right arm firmly across his chest. He strokes Sherlock’s cock with his left hand, slowly and firmly. Slips his own dick between Sherlock’s slick thighs. Nudges the base of his sac with every thrust.

“I love feeling you come,” John murmurs. “I could keep this up all night if I wanted to, but I want to feel you soak my hand.” He mouths Sherlock’s earlobe. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock thrusts back at him, angling for more control. John pulls him harder against his chest. Pins the taller man down with one leg across his. Strokes faster with his hand. Thrusts more slowly with his cock.

“I have you,” John says into Sherlock’s ear. Bites him hard at the shoulder. “You’re mine. And I say we’re not going to rush this.”

Sherlock moans.

He palms Sherlock faster and faster. The hot cock feels marvellous in his hand, stiff and leaking precome over his fingers. The tight space between Sherlock’s thighs is getting tighter. Hotter. Slicker. Unless John’s mistaken, Sherlock’s tensing his muscles to intensify John’s strokes.

“Fuck,” John gasps. “Not fair.”

“All’s fair.” Sherlock turns over one shoulder. Kisses him, deep and sensually. John revels in it for a moment or two. Heat. Mouths moving together. Then he thrusts faster with his cock and slides his hand faster and faster until Sherlock’s breath is stuttering.

“Damn,” John says against Sherlock’s beautiful lips. “Wanted to hold out for you.”

“You first,” Sherlock murmurs, though his skin is hot and slick with sweat. “I’d like you to.”

“And then you,” he insists. Too good. Sherlock’s thighs are a slick vise around his cock. He has to bury himself there, again and again. His hand stutters on Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s mouth captures his. Sherlock grabs the lube. Squirts some into his hand. Brushes John’s fingers aside to begin stroking his own cock.

“Come for me,” Sherlock says. “And I’ll return the favour.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s gaze is soft. Sherlock watches him, smiling, his lips kiss-bruised and parted.

The world goes soft-edged and fuzzy. John’s balls tighten. Rise. He blindly splashes a little more lube over his own dick and Sherlock’s thighs. Grabs Sherlock’s hips. Fucks hard and fast.

Sherlock kisses him. Pants into John’s mouth. John chases the kiss even as he chases the orgasm. Almost. Almost. So close. Yes. Pleasure is a thick buzzing in his ears, a rich humming in his blood. Closer. Closer. Yes!

He thrusts hard. Comes in deep spurts that splash the mattress and streak Sherlock’s thighs and balls. Bleary-eyed and shuddering blissfully, John looks down at this man who he’s just marked as his. Sherlock is smiling, eyes warm.

Sherlock surges up. Kisses John, hard and rough. And even though the orgasm makes him a little giddy and unfocussed, John smiles around the kiss at the thought of seeing Sherlock give in to pleasure. “How do you fancy?” John says.

“Hand is good,” Sherlock pants. He lies back. Takes John’s hand. Uses it to gather the splashes of come into his hand. Closes John’s slick fingers around Sherlock’s dick. Grinning, John begins to jack him again. Aroused and breathless, Sherlock tangles fists in the sheets, and starts thrusting up into John’s hand.

“John,” he manages. “Fuck, yes!”

John pulls Sherlock to the ragged edge of orgasm. Slows. Wanks him lazily until he’s begging for it, his whole body tensing with anticipation.

“I need…” Sherlock’s eyes roll in pleasure. “John, PLEASE!”

John untangles Sherlock’s hand from the sheet. Slathers slick and semen onto Sherlock’s fingers. Flushed and barely breathing, Sherlock watches him, though his head falls back in ecstasy as John wraps Sherlock’s hand and his own around Sherlock’s dick.

“That.” Sherlock’s voice is rough. “Yes, John. That. Please.”

“You want this?” John whispers across Sherlock’s ear.

“Need it.” Sherlock’s hips rise off the mattress. “With you, always need.”

“I could keep you like this for hours,” John says, a half-serious threat.

Low chuckle. “Unlikely.”

John changes the stroke. Sherlock’s eyes fly open, his flush now one of dismay.

“You’re not the only one who sees and remembers,” says John.

“Bastard.” Sherlock tries to change the stroke, but John’s hand holds his prisoner. “You wouldn’t…?”

John kisses him fiercely. Sherlock throws everything into that kiss, pleading. John keeps him going at the torturous pace until Sherlock gives in. Stops fighting him. Moves with him, obedient. It’s been a long time since John got him this hot and bothered. It tastes delicious.

“Good,” he says, and wanks Sherlock faster.

Sherlock breathes out on a sigh of relief. “Very good.”

“Come for me,” he says across Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock seizes John’s mouth with his.

John pulls back. “No,” he says. “Want to see. To watch you coming. I’ve earned this.”

Sherlock’s cock slides in and out of their shared fist. Sherlock’s wide eyes lock on to John’s, near-black with need.

“Now,” John says.

With a cry, Sherlock comes, hard and shuddering. Spatters new streaks across his chest. His thighs. The bedding. John holds him tightly, milking him slowly and thoroughly of every drop. John slides down to recline beside his lover, savouring every gasp and shudder and jagged exhale. Sherlock’s hand is limp in his. Kissing Sherlock’s temple, John makes their fist slide along Sherlock’s cock one more time.

Sherlock breathes out on a sigh. “John…”

John loves the silence that follows such a release. And the rich weight of a boneless Sherlock in his arms.

Eventually, John kisses his temple. “We should shower.”

Sherlock hums a nonverbal assent that sounds equally loath to move.

Eventually, John admits defeat and wrestles the duvet over them. “It’ll stain, you know.”

Sherlock represses a yawn. “It washes.”

John chuckles, holding him more tightly. “And how would you know?”

“Says so, right on the tag.”

“And how many black-light-and-luminol experiments were required to confirm this?”

“Seven. Then it became dull.”

Smiling, John presses leisurely kisses to the sensitive hollow behind Sherlock’s ear. A wiser man would insist on a shower before surrendering again to dreams, but John prefers to hold his lover until languor becomes a deep and restful sleep.

There is a soft sigh in the dark. If he could be arsed to concentrate, John might have thought it said, “I love you.”

 _Kandahar is baked and bone dry. A merciless sun beats down, sucking the very air from his body. John lies on his own operating table, bleeding. His chest gapes open, his heart exposed, still and lifeless. The hot wind shifts. Settles. The desert around him is white as bleached bones ground to powder under marching feet._

 _He can’t move. He’s paralyzed, gazing open-eyed at the blinding sky. The last of his blood drips down one arm, spilling thickly out of his withered body._

 _He tries to blink as a black shadow falls over him. Blocks out the sun. Mist pearls on John’s skin. Flows up and over the table. Its writhing tendrils blur the shape of the shadow over him. No. Not writhing. The tendrils caress him, their touch soft and tentative. Mist curls and envelops the shape. Flows from it to John. More cool tendrils quest over his nose and mouth. The mist pushes chill fingers into his ruined belly._

 _He shivers, teeth chattering. Mist condenses to water. Drips and splashes and echoes of water rippling over stones. It’s faint, on the edge of his hearing. John struggles to turn his head, to wrench his leathered muscles around so he can see the figure properly._

 _It’s tall. Slender. Its coat flows in and out of the mists like it’s made of them. Swirling. He blinks as the figure jitters and blurs. It’s like static interference in his peripheral vision. One form flickers over another, then back again. Both are tall. Both are slender. Both are swathed in black. Long curly black hair spills to the shoulders of each._

 _Spattering sounds change to a steady flow of water. John’s so dry, so desperately thirsty. He tries again to turn, to see where the water is coming from._

 _Leather-gloved hands (her white arms) hold a wide, flat stone bowl. Water spills over the side and mist drifts on the surface. The muffler is a twist of sparkling sapphire gems at Sherlock’s throat. The face above the gems is white as the moon. The grey eyes are constant in the changing (high cheekbones pale skin lush mouth) visage, watching John intently. “Live,” says each voice (deep baritone/mellow alto), “Or die?”_

 _Each voice overlaps the other. Sherlock is smoke and cello strings and silk. The other is his viola counterpart, twinned with his in deep, dark harmonics._

 _John’s tongue is too thick in his mouth. He can only make a choking sound in reply. His body spasms, arm flailing. He misses a grab for the bowl._

 _“It will change (has changed)(transmogrifies) you,” the voices say, duelling in harmony._

 _Blood thick in his mouth, John tries to gasp, “Please.” He chokes on the word._

 _The trickle of water flows onto the table. Bends toward him._

 _Sherlock’s eyes (the woman’s eyes) are steady. Magician and Sorceress, come to help him._

 _“Please,” John says again through parched lips._

 _S/he tips the bowl. Water flows faster, a broad stream. John reaches for it, shivering as the icy stream flows up his arm. Washes the blood from his hands and arms. Gathers it in swirls and eddies before sweeping all the clotted filth from the table._

 _Splashes hit John’s open mouth. He raises his head from the table, twisting into the cataract that pours over his head and shoulders. Sherlock (she) turns the bowl. Clean, cold water washes over John’s face. Dust and sand (fear and sorrow) are flooded out of John’s clear open eyes. Water twists through the canyons of worry around his eyes and mouth, carving and erasing and_ changing.

 _Water closes over him. Envelops him. He sinks deeper. Deeper. Deeper beneath it. Swims free of all thoughts of pain and heat and blood. These cooler depths rejuvenate him, their ebb and flow coaxing his heart to beating again. When he looks, it’s closed again in the protective cage of his ribs, the skin smooth and whole. He breathes in, the slower exchange of oxygen almost erotic, the water silvery over his naked skin. Flashes of white skin in these depths, black draperies, silvery eyes. S/he is here with him, beautiful in his/her native element._

 _He swims upward. Upward. Looks for the surface._

 _A hand encased in black leather plunges down, trailing silvery bubbles. Catches his hand. Pulls him up into the cool of evening._

 _The shore of the river is still as midnight. The streets are dewed with mist. Dim streetlights are pools of yellow in the thickening fog. John breathes in chill. Breathes in condensation. Mist and fog and home. He’s home. This is his home._

 _Sherlock is shadows and black coat, the mist swirling obediently at his heels. He stands at John’s side on the river’s shore. The night has always been Sherlock’s domain, and now he opens his arms, offering it to John._

 _John lets himself be enveloped, the cold of Sherlock’s coat more like solid stormclouds than wool. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Yet here he is safe. In Sherlock’s arms there is only the stillness of the night._

 _“Detective.” It’s a faint sigh on the breeze._

 _Sherlock looks up, his face blurring, but the emotion is clear as anything. The arms that hold John tense with anticipation. The first tendrils of mist flow ahead._

 _Sherlock looks down at him, eyes clear and unapologetic. John can choose. Sherlock won’t mind either way._

 _“We have to find it and fix it,” says John._

 _“I must,” replies the low voice, still echoing in strange alto harmonies. “There is no rest for me until I do.”_

 _“I’ll come with you,” John says._

 _“We won’t save them all,” the Detective warns softly._

 _“We’ll save some.” John brushes away the last drops of water as his clothes knit whole. “If you need me?”_

 _A genuine smile. “I will always need you.”_


End file.
